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Concord, N. H. 

Copyright, 1911 
By Rev. Hugh F. Blunt 



I wish to acknowledge the kindness of the editors of the Magnificat, 
the Ave Maria, the Catholic World, the Sacred Heart Review, the Pilot, 
the Irish Monthly, the Rosary, the New York Sun, the Messenger of the 
Sacred Heart, and other magazines, in which many of these poems 
appeared originally, in giving me permission to reprint them herein. 


God get thee what I yearn to get thee, 
Summer's sunlight in thy soul; 

Peacef ulness where nought can fret thee, 
Happiness without a dole. 

God send thee what I yearn to send thee, 
I whose hands are powerless, 

Angel guardians to defend thee 
From the breath of wickedness. 

God bless thee, as I yearn to bless thee, 
Till thy life is brimmed with joy; 

Close unto Him may He press thee, 
Shutting out the world's annoy. 

God love thee as I yearn to love thee, 
With the love no man can know, 

Love that opens Heaven above thee — 
Dearest one, God love thee so! 


I have never seen you, Ireland, 

My feet have never pressed 
The vales and hills, O Sireland, 

Where my fathers keep their rest. 
Oh, a distant, foreign land you are 

To me outside the Pale, 
But in my heart is something calling, 

Ever calling to the Gael; 
Yea, the blood of me is calling to the Gael. 

I have conned your bitter story, 

And my heart within has cried; 
I have traced your annals, gory 

With the blood of them that died. 
'Tis the story of an alien land 

That draws from me the wail; 
Yet in my heart is something calling, 

Ever calling to the Gael; 
Yea, the blood of me is calling to the Gael. 

I may never see you, Ireland, 

Your kiss may never feel; 
Upon your shores, O Sireland, 

'Tis I may never kneel. 
Oh, I'm leal to my Columbia, 

With love that can not fail, 
Yet in my heart is something calling, 

Ever calling to the Gael; 
Yea, the blood of me is calling to the Gael. 



Tirnanoge, ah, Tirnanoge! 

Land of youth in the heart of the sea, 
I've climbed to the cliffs on the coast of the west, 
A-longing to look on the island of rest; 

But the sight in my head 

Is withered and dead, 

Tirnanoge, ah, Tirnanoge! 

Land of youth in the heart of the sea, 
I think of the feasting on honey and wine, 
The silver and gold and the raiment so fine; 

Ah, it's you that had all, 

A heart to enthrall, 

Tirnanoge, ah, Tirnanoge! 

Land of youth in the heart of the sea, 
I think of the sheep with the fleeces of gold, 
The hounds and the steeds that no mortal can hold; 

O 'twould take all the year 

To tell of your cheer, 

♦Tirnanoge — the land of youth. "The ancient Irish," says Joyce, "had a 
sort of dim, vague belief that there was a land where people were always youth- 
ful, and free from care and trouble, suffered no disease, and lived forever." 

Tirnanoge, ah, Tirnanoge! 

Land of youth in the heart of the sea, 
'Tis I that once dwelt on the height of your hills 
With fairies to tend me and guard me from ills; 

But I wandered away — 

Oh, woe to the day, 

Tirnanoge, ah, Tirnanoge! 

Land of youth in the heart of the sea, 
Will ever the night of my exile be o'er? 
Will ever my keel creep again to your shore? 

Is it you answers yea? 

Oh, then God be your stay, 


Colleen of the laughing eyes, 

Silken lashes 'round them, 
Deeper than the bluest skies, 

Never could I sound them. 
Colleen, but it's you that kills 

All the evil in me, 
When your own sweet laughter fills 

All the soul within me. 

Colleen of the raven down, 

Where the night is biding, 
Where the sunlight weaves a crown, 

In its meshes hiding; 
Colleen, sure if I were king, 

Rich with treasures laden, 
Golden crown to you I'd bring, 

Were you beggar maiden. 

Colleen of the silver tongue, 

Honeyed so entrancing, 
Sweetest poems ever sung 

On your lips are dancing; 
Colleen, am I making bold, 

Naming you my Heaven? 
Ah, but I am gray and old — 

You are guileless seven. 


I bless myself, and I kiss the cross, 

And the holy Creed I tell; 
And the Paters and Aves trip off my tongue, 

For it's me that knows them well. 

For it's many a day these same old beads 

I told in the same old way; 
I got them my First Communion morn, 

And that's sixty years this May. 

'Twas the joyful mysteries then I liked, 

(And I said them joyfully), 
When the Lord was only a child Himself 

At His Blessed Mother's knee. 

Ochone! but it's many and many a year 
I've turned from the joyful deeds, 

And I cry on the sorrowful mysteries 
With tears as big as my beads. 

For my beautiful boy with the fever went, 
And "himself" next morning died: 

Do you wonder I think of the mysteries 
That end with the Crucified? 


For it's then as I'm telling each blessed bead 

A-kneeling beside my bed, 
We two old women, God's Mother and me, 

Have many a talk of our dead. 

But what am I crying about at all? 

Sure, all of us have to die; 
I had my sins, and She had none, 

So she had reason to cry. 

And that's why I'm liking the beads that tell 
Her pains and Her darling Son's: 

It's plenty of time I'll be having in Heaven, 
To think of the glorious ones. 



Small were her sins; to me they seemed 
As bits of gray upon the white, 

White robe, where crusted jewels gleamed 
Of sixty years lived in the light. 

Gray spots to me; yet to her eyes, 

That knew the Godhead's searching fire, 

Testing her soul for Paradise, 

Gray spots were black, deserving ire. 

"Heavy the sins upon my head, 

All worthy of the Master's rod; 
But then," with holy trust she said, 
" 'Tis easy to make up with God." 

Ah, dying saint, asperged with tears, 
E'en now illumed by light above! 

May hope like thine dispel my fears, 
And turn me to His eager love. 



I shrived her soul of the sinly stain, 

That Irish granny of eighty years. 
Ah, weary the night on her bed of pain, 

But she smiled at me through her grateful tears, 
And whispered low, "God love you!" 

I blessed her tongue with the Living Bread, 

While she clasped her hands and closed her eyes, 

Adown on her breast dropped the old gray head, 

And, as one who was speaking from Paradise, 

She whispered then, "God love you!" 

I crossed her body with holy oil, 

From the dimming eyes to the aching feet, 

Ah, lightsome now were the years of toil 
That won for her hands the unction sweet, 
And again she said, "God love you! " 

I signed her lips with the Crucified, 

And breathed the Church's indulging prayer. 

Ah, sweet was her kiss at His wounded side, 
And I left her waiting the Angel there. 
As she said, "Asthore, God love you!" 

Ah, dear old granny of eighty years, 

When all of my labor here is o'er, 
May a faith like thine be a death to fears, 

And lead me in at the Saviour's door, 
To hear Him say, "God loves you! " 



Will you go to the door, alanna, 
And watch if the priest is near? 

It's weary the hours are dragging 
Till the time he'll be coming here. 

Sure, I never have slept the night long, 
But just to lie here and pray, 

To think that the Lord is coming 
To my humble home this day. 

I've counted the years, alanna, 
From my first Communion morn, 

When I was a bit of a colleen 
In the land where I was born. 

That's seventy years this summer, 
And often my heart was sore, 

But the monthly Duty blessed me, 
And soothered the grief I bore. 

Thank God for that faith, alanna! 

What mattered the work and strife, 
When there at the altar-railing 

I could eat of the Bread of Life? 


These seventy years, alanna, 
I went to Him faithfully, 

Seventy years, alanna, 

And at last He's coming to me. 

Look out of the window, daughter; 

He's coming at last, you say? 
Long life to the darling soggarth, 

That brings me my God this day! 



There's a caoning on the highroad, 

There's a caoning in the lanes, 
And the tears are rushing from the eyes 

Like streams of April rains. 
All the night the Bean Shee wandered, 

For I heard her calling dread; 
Oh, the sorrow's come upon us, 

For an Irish mother's dead. 

Just a plain old Irish mother, 

With no fortune to her name; 
And not a chick nor child behind, 

Her poor old corpse to claim. 
Sure, it's long ago they went and died, 

And left her grieving sore, 
Herself that had no home at all, 

But beg from door to door. 

But she never moaned her sorrow, 

And she never made complaint, 
But bore the burthen of her cross 

Like any Irish saint. 
And it's God, I'm thinking, took away 

The ones she called her own, 
To make her be a mother 

To the stranger's flesh and bone. 


God knows the many times she watched 

Beside the dying bed; 
God knows the many times she came 

To wash and dress the dead; 
God knows the many souls she drew 

Away from evil life, 
To lead them back to make their peace, 

And eat the Bread of Life. 

God knows — I could not count the deeds 

Herself has done us all; 
No wonder that the light of Heaven 

Seemed from her eyes to fall; 
Ochone, Mavrone, no wonder 

That the skies today are fair; 
What else could skies of Heaven be, 

When the likes of her is there. . 

Oh, there's caoning on the highroad, 

And there's caoning in the lanes, 
And the tears are rushing from the eyes 

Like streams of April rains. 
All the night the Bean Shee wandered, 

For I heard her calling dread; 
Oh, the sorrow's come upon us, 

For an Irish mother's dead. 



Lines in Memory of Reverend Michael Ronan 

["None is my helper in all these things, but Michael * your prince." — Daniel 
10 : 21.] 

"Who is like God?" the angel cried 

When out from the blaze of Eternal Sun 
As a shaft of scorching light he sped 

To conquer the dark and evil one. 

Who is like God? Ah, Angel Prince, 

We humbly reply to thy warring call; 
Who is like God? and we name the name 

Of him that is under the sable pall. 

Like unto thee, O Soldier Prince, 

The evil under his feet he trod; 
A warring priest with a heart of fire, 

As he rode in the cavalcade of God. 

Like unto God — as "another Christ," 

Apostle of love at the Master's side, 
"He went about doing good" to all, 

And died at his work as the Master died. 

Who is like God? Thou, Michael, Priest, 

Art a Prince at last in the cohorts blest; 
Home from the wars, now fold thy hands, 

And there at the feet of thy God have rest! 

♦Michael signifies Who is like God? 



Mavrone, it's you that has the way, 

It's you that has the smile; 
The eyes are dancing in my head 

From watching you the while. 
There may be clouds in other lands, 

But Irish skies are blue: 
And I don't know why it's always fair 

Unless the light's from you. 

Mavrone, it's you that has the lips, 

It's you that has the song; 
I sing no better than a crow, 

But I'm singing all day long. 
They say there's moaning in the sea, 

Where angry billows rush, 
But all the waves that kiss the shore 

To me sing like the thrush. 

Mavrone, it's you that has my heart, 

It's you that has my soul; 
The poets say that life is short, 

And full of every dole. 
But, ah, Mavrone, don't let them know 

The joy I have in you, 
For fear they'd steal away your heart, 

And make me think them true. 



The bells are raising ructions with their clanging, 
And they'd split you through the ears with all their banging; 
Oh, it's wild they are this morning, 
But the noise I'll not be scorning, 
For with all their din, 
They're bringing in 
Dear old Saint Patrick's Day. 

There's flags galore upon the houses blowing, 
And there's more of them from out the windows flowing, 
Oh, the blaze of glory'd blind you, 
But I'm not complaining, mind you, 
For the green that flies 
Would heal the eyes 
On old Saint Patrick's Day. 

The scores of men and maids and even children, 
Parading through the street, me head's bewild'rin'; 
Oh, you'd think the whole world crazy, 
But I'm not a bit unaisy, 
For it's me can tell 
The foolish spell 
Of old Saint Patrick's Day. 


So wear the green, and let the world be knowing 
Of the royal Irish blood that's in you flowing; 
Give a kiss with love endearin' 
To the shamrock of poor Erin, 
And a thanks to God 
For Irish sod 
And old Saint Patrick's Day. 



Will you listen to the laugh of it, 

Gushing from the fiddle; 
More's the fun in half of it 

Than e'en an Irish riddle. 
Sure, it's not a fiddler's bow 

That's making sport so merry; 
It's just the fairies laughing so — 

I heard them oft in Kerry. 

Will you listen to the step of it. 

Faith, that tune's daisy; 
Just the very leap of it 

Would make the feet unaisy. 
Hold your tongues, ye noisy rogues, 

And stop your giddy prancing; 
It's me can hear the weeshee brogues 

Of Irish fairies dancing. 

Will you listen to the tune of it, 

Sweeter than the honey. 
I'd rather hear the croon of it 

Than get a miser's money. 
Sure, my lad, it makes me cry, 

But don't play any other: 
May God be with the days gone by 

I heard it from my mother. 


They are passing, swiftly passing, as the dew before the sun, 
As the wheat before the gleaners when the harvesting is done; 
They are marching down the hillside at the ending of the day: 
Ah, ye noble Irish exiles, must ye pass from us away? 

Long ago they left their cabins on the heights of Irish hills; 
Left the Irish mist and sunshine, for the gloom of foreign 

Left the shamrock green and holy, left the thrush's song so 

Left the hearthstone of their fathers, for the stranger-crowded 


Poor and hungry, weak and wasted, huddled in the holds of 

Did they bid adieu to Ireland with a sob upon their lips; 
With a sob and with a prayer, as they faced the mighty main, 
Turning from the dear old homeland they would never see 


Came they not with blaring trumpets, came they not with 
flying flags! 

Came they as a host defeated, in its battle-tattered rags; 

But with hearts of bold crusaders did they tread the stranger- 

And they builded here a city to the everlasting God. 


They are passing, dear old women, who have prayed and 

labored hard; 
Strong old men, whose greatest glory was to be the Faith's 

Old Guard. 
God be with them — Irish pilgrims — for their exile was not 

Ah, my brothers, shall we ever look upon their like again? 



(In Commemoration of the Fiftieth Anniversary of Its De- 
parture for the Front.) 

Erin, aroon, sure it's you that knows 

How God can fashion a soldier brave; 
For wherever your old green banner blows, 

It marks the shrine of a hero's grave. 

"Where are your sons, O Queen, asthore, 
Where are your sons that bled; 
Where are the fighting men you bore, 
Where are your noble dead?" 

"Where are my sons, that died for right, 
Where are my sons, you say; 
Where are the heroes of the fight, 
I armed against the fray? 

"I have counted the shamrocks one by one, 
Each leaf that is tinged with red, 
And each is the name of a hero son, 
That is lying cold and dead. 

"I counted them all, and my heart is sore, 
Oh, never was loss like mine! 
For the bright red stream of my children's gore 
Has carmined the boundless brine. 


"I wander through Ireland far and wide, 
Through valley and field and glen, 
And in every part of the countryside, 
I am counting the graves of men. 

"Where are my sons? They died for me; 
Died in the flush of youth; 
Died that their Mother might be free, 
Died for the cause of Truth. 

"Green is the grass on the Holy Hills; 
No marvel 'tis green and fair, 
For every inch of the old sod thrills 
With the life-blood lavished there. 

"But not alone in their native earth 
Do the Irish heroes sleep; 
To many a child have I given birth, 
But his bones do the strangers keep. 

"Under the shadows of Fontenoy, 
Under the fleur de lis, 
Lies many a martyred Irish boy 
Who wandered away from me. 

"Under the burning Afric sands, 
Under the skies of Spain; 
Under the glory of Eastern lands, 
My woe-eyed sons were slain. 


"Yea, is the world their battle-ground, 
Heroes that never quail. 
O blessed mine ears to have heard the sound 
Of the praises of the Gael! 

"But thou, Columbia, best dost know, 
My sister across the brine, 
My Irish sons that have struck their blow 
For Freedom's cause and thine. 

"Their names on thy rosters bright have shone; 
(Oh, would I could call each name!) 
From Lexington unto San Juan, 
They died to enrich thy fame. 

"My noble sons who were all mine own, 
My love for you all is great, 
But today I am thinking of these alone, 
My Ninth of the Old Bay State. 

"O * Fighting Ninth,' they had named you well, 
Ye fighters that knew no dread, 
Fronting the foe with your Irish yell, 
And scorning the blood you shed. 

"What of the sick, and what of the maimed, 
And what of the dead, alas? 
Eager you gave what the battle claimed 
For Guiney and for Cass. 


"At Gaines' Mill; on Malvern Hill; 

On the Fields of the 'Seven Days'; 
In the Wilderness; at Chancellors ville; 
Ah, well did ye earn your bays. 

"O 'Fighting Ninth,' sure it's I am proud 

To call you mine own this day, 
And my heart with gladness cries aloud, 
As I kneel at your graves to pray. 

"'Tis yearning to have your bones am I 

To shrine them in Irish sod; 
But, aroon, what matter where bones may lie, 
When the souls are at home with God? 

"Columbia, 'tis not in boast I cry 
Of the sons I have given thee: 
What else would an Irishman do but die 
For the noble land of the free? 

"But, dear, as thou'rt kissing their glorious scars 
To lay them to peace serene, 
When folding their bones in the stripes and stars, 
Just put in a bit of the green." 



The breadth of My love: 'tis a forest fire, 

Consuming with widest sweep, 
And it ne'er grows weak in its hot desire, 

And the breadth of its ardor can never sleep. 
But the forest fire brings only death, 
And the flame of My love is a cooling breath. 

The breadth of My love: 'tis a summer rain, 

Uplifting the drooping flowers, 
As it cleanses the grass of the dusty plain, 

With a flood of life to the waning powers. 
But the summer rain again will dry, 
And the flood of My love e'er runneth by. 

The breadth of My love : 'tis a wind of spring, 

Embracing the bending trees, 
And it mounts the hills with a tireless wing, 

Or rests with a kiss on the flashing seas. 
But the wind of spring soon flits away, 
And the wind of My love is here for aye. 

The breadth of My love: ah, 'tis more than this, 

Desiring the hearts of men, 
As it roams the world with its luring kiss, 

And calls them back to My heart again. 
Oh, the breadth of My love is Infinity, 
And the breadth of My love is Eternity. 



"Son, give me thy hearth 

I brought to my God, with a thought to please, 

My arms upheaped with the blue hearts-ease, 

With fragrant lily and mossy rose, 

All gathered for Him in my garden-close. 

"These blossoms for Thee, God," I said; 

But the Lord smiled not, — and my flowers are dead. 

I brought to my God a haunting strain — 

The mystical dream of a poet's brain; 

I linked each word to a solemn tone, 

And I sang it unto His ear alone. 

"I sing of Thy love, God," said I; 

But the Lord seemed deaf to my throat's full cry. 

I stood me then at His barred door, 

My hands upfilled with my meagre store 

Of alms for His poor, and I said, "Dear Lord, 

But bless me once as my good reward." 

I knocked till my hands were numbed in pain; 

But alas, and my gold was all in vain. 

"0 God," I sobbed in my bitterness, 
"Will none of my gifts move Thee to bless? 
Wilt Thou of my love-gifts have no part; 
What then can I offer to please Thy heart?" 
But the Lord, still sorrowing, answered so: 
"// thou didst love Me, thou wouldst know." 



He drew the veil that we might see and prize, 
p&The way that leadeth to His mansions bright; 
But proud and stubborn Reason closed her eyes, 
And sullenly cried out: "There is no light!" 



In the streets of "Mary's City" multitudes are thronging; 

Tier on tier the faces rising to the very sky. 
Countless eyes are brightly flashing, eyes with eager longing; 

Countless voices, lowly speaking, join into a cry. 
Guns are booming, bells are frantic in their joyful clanging; 

Children, innocent and joyous, myriad blossoms fling. 
From the arches, from the windows, banners gay are hanging. 

God! the yearning of Thy people, waiting for the King. 

Hark! the mighty bell, the Bourdon, from the tower sounding, 

Telling to the Royal Mount that God is on His way. 
Hushed the murmur of men's voices, but their hearts are 

God be praised that we have lived to see this wondrous day ! 
On they come in serried columns, firm as hosts victorious, 

E'en the stones are crying out to praise this mighty thing. 
Rise ye, too, and clap your hands to laud the vision glorious, 

Men and maids and children that are waiting for the King. 

Whence are they, the countless marchers? Seems the world 
outpouring ! 

Hour on hour the sea of bodies surges thro' the street; 
Hour on hour the air is filled with song of souls adoring; 

Blaring bands of music mingle with the tramp of feet. 
See them! men of rank and wealth, and men of lowly station; 

Men of youth and men of age, men that pray and sing; 
Native men and foreign men, yet all, this day, one nation: 

God, for all these men we thank Thee waiting for the 

Ah, He's near; the blaze of glory to the eye is blinding; 

Priests in red, and priests in gold, and priests in dazzling 
Canons, abbots, Bishops, princes down the street are winding; 

Mitres shine like crowns of gold within the blessed light. 
Ah, the odor of the incense! Lord, I see no longer; 

Closed my body's eyes, as low I kneel in worshipping. 
Lord, my faith was ever strong, but in this hour 'tis stronger, 

And I bless Thee for Thy coming, O my Eucharistic King! 

— The Eucharistic Congress, Montreal, September 11, 1910. 



Wave lashing wave on the angry brine, 
And the frailest of crafts is this boat of mine; 
But never a sea is so deep and wide 
But the hand of God can reach inside. 

Drift piling drift on the mountain steep, 

And the weak limbs tremble as up they creep; 

But never a mount is so high and cold 

But the feet of the Shepherd can find the fold. 

Be the sea or the snows 

My body's dole y 
*Tis God that knows 

Where to find my soul. 



One little leaf, 
Tossing its head, 
Yellow and red, 
High on a tree. 

One little leaf, 
Thither it sped, 
Earth for a bed, 
Thither to me. 

One little leaf, 
Withered and dead, 
Glory all shed, 
Sport of the gust. 

One little leaf, 
Softly it said, 
"Me thou must wed- 
Both in the dust." 



I went the path of the rose; 

(In song I went.) 
Tripping it light through the garden-close, 

Where Summer had spent 
The days of suns and the nights of rains, 
Weaving a rug from the velvet skeins 
Of roses yellow and red. 

I came the path of the rose; 

(I came in pain.) 
With bleeding feet through the swirling snows, 

Where Winter had lain, 
The days all drear, and the years all cold, 
Weaving the cerements to enfold 
My roses blighted and dead. 



All day long the rustling trees 

Are whispering back to the wooing breeze; 

And the obligato flutings sing 

From the sparrows at rest on a lazy wing: 

Mellow the light in the hazy sky, 

And the peace of earth comes humming by. 

All night long the waters lave 

The crooning sands with a hushing wave; 

And the winds are singing a sleepy hymn 

To the drowsing boats at the ocean's brim : 

Dreaming abed is a winking star, 

And peace lies sleeping upon the bar. 

Into my heart, by night, by day, 
A Wind is singing a roundelay, 
And the lapping waves of a silent sea 
To the rim of my heart come tenderly: 
Soft is the glow of the Light Divine, 
And the peace of the God of Peace is mine. 



Tell me not of golden skies, 
Maiden's smiles and laughing eyes, 
Unrequited lovers* sighs: 
Is that love? 

Tell me of created clay, 
Doomed to die, and mourn for aye, 
Then a Christ, a thorn-strewn way: 
That is Love! 



Into the censer's glowing cup 
The dust of frankincense I pour, 

And watch the perfumed smoke leap up 
To cloud the lighted chancel o'er. 

Ah, King, upon Thy throne of might, 
I would these grains within the flame 

Were each a world of golden light — 
A holocaust unto Thy name. 

Yea, King, but I, Thy servant low 

Give Thee more joy than worlds impart; 

Behold the thoughts of love that glow 
Within the censer of my heart. 


You chant of golden coronet 
Where priceless diamonds are set, 
Of queenly brow and raven hair 
Beneath that work of art so fair — 
I know full many a crown as rare. 

But the crown I sing is not of gold, 
Tho' set with gems of wealth untold 
On matted hair and aching head, 
King of the living and the dead, 
Its jewels, all the blood He shed. 

Sing you of crown which gold adorns, 
But I of God's own crown of thorns. 



Filled with Thee: as the cup is filled, 
Deep submerged in the limpid stream, 

Till the crystal cup and the crystal wave 
As one same murmuring brooklet seem. 

Filled with Thee: as the shoals are filled, 
Wave on wave, by the inning tide, 

Till the rocks and weeds of the desert shore 
Are made a part of the ocean wide. 

Filled with Thee: let Thy grace, Lord, 
Brim the cup of this heart of me; 

And as swelling tide let it hide the wastes 
Of this my soul in Eternal Sea. 



"My peace I give unto you . . 
. . . The world hateth you." 

The peace of strife for God, 

The energy of fight, 
Of battle with the foe, 

Of struggle for the right: 
This is the holy peace; 

No languish of decay, 
No getting empty rest 

By shrinking from the fray. 

The peace of strife for God, 

To keep the soul from stain, 
Though every bone be racked, 

Though heart be rent in twain; 
The peace of nails and cross — 

Not as the world can give — 
Lord, in Thy warring peace 

Give us the strength to live. 



["He came unto his own, and His own received Him not." — St. John 1: 2.] 

How learnedly ye fathom Godhead's deep, 

The deep Eternity, Infinitude, 

Him that ye call the Galilean rude, 
As in the vitriol the quill ye steep. 
Christ was not God, ye scoff, and then ye heap 

High words, to prove Him but a rabbi shrewd, 

With spell of Eastern prodigies imbued, 
To bring on lowly souls His deadly sleep. 
Christ but a man! God only to the blind; 

The falsifier of a trusting age, 

The victim of a nation's fitting rage, 
Deceiver of Himself and human kind. 

Ah fools, ye wise, who cannot see the worth 

Of your own souls that brought a God to earth. 



Countless the miles unto yon smallest star, 
And yet my body's eyes o'erleap the space. 

O'erpowering thought, my soul, to know how far 
Thine eyes, one day, will reach — e'en to God's face. 



He sat beside me on the bench, 
My Music-Master, sorrow-eyed; 

He took my hand; I did not blench, 
But nestled closer at His side. 

"Play what thou lovest most," He said, 
"The voicings of thy yearning soul, 

And from the mighty organ's head 
Let thine improvisation roll." 

I touched my fingers to the keys, 
And to the pedals touched my feet; 

I smiled to hear the harmonies — 
Enough to make the world replete. 

It was a prelude, soft at first, 

As sweet as singing nymphs at play; 
Or like the piping birds that burst 

To lilt the spring a roundelay. 

My organ sang of rippling brooks, 
Of cloudlets scudding o'er the sky. 

Of fairies in the forest nooks, 
Of lazy swallows drifting by. 

The "Pastorale" my heart desired, 
Where all was one long merry game; 

And then on organ fullest choired 
I sang my yearning song of fame. 


By massive chord, by rhythmic beat, 
That shook each overlooming arch, 

I trumpeted my foes' defeat, 

And ran on Fame's triumphal march. 

A mighty song of life, thought I, 
As on the air the music died; 

But in the calm I heard His sigh, 

And turned to Him, the sorrow-eyed. 

" 'Twas well? " I said; "a splendid theme, 
For my 'Heroic Symphony?' " 

My Master spake not, but did seem 
As one who touched Eternity. 

He spake not, but He touched the keys; 

I trembled near Him on the bench: 
The organ moaned in agonies, 

The very world it seemed to wrench. 

I could not hear a tuneful strain 

'Mid all the pipes that shrieked aloud; 

'Twas like all nature gone insane, 
And all mankind a maddened crowd. 

"Ah, cease," I cried, "My Master, cease, 
Thou wouldst not have me follow Thee 

In such a wild discordant piece; 
Teach me a gentler harmony." 


He raised His fingers from the keys, 
My Music-Master, sorrow-eyed; 

The organ ceased its agonies, 

My Master looked at me, and sighed. 

"I know no tune of earth," He said, 
"I play one never-changing strain; 

Naught else could these poor hands that bled 
But this — my Symphony of Pain. 

" Tis discord to thy soothed ear 

That knows but strains of softest mirth, 

But in its golden chords I hear 
The sweetest melody on earth. 

"And thou, my pupil, that wouldst be 

A master at Life's instrument, 
Must learn the artistry from Me, 

Or vain is all the labor spent." 

He sat beside me on the bench, 
My Music-Master, sorrow-eyed; 

My heart was sore, my soul did blench: 
And then — "Teach me, dear God," I cried. 



Though Doom had crushed upon the earth 

And skies rained glutting fire; 
Though life had lost its power of birth — 

The world become one funeral pyre: 
Though all were dark, 
Wan, drear and stark, 
And terror iced the veins; 

Though God's own hand seemed stricken numb — 
Faith would be staunch amid the pains, 

And whisper — "He will come." 



[ — "We have labored all the night and have taken nothing, but at thy word 
I will let down the net. And when they had done this they enclosed a very 
great multitude of fishes." — St. Luke 5: 5-6.] 

We labored all the night — in vain — 

Our nets are empty yet; 
Our hearts despair of further gain, 

And lo, we cease, and fret. 

But at Thy Word, amid the waves 

Anew the nets we sink; 
And know the Power that loves and saves 

Will fill them to the brink. 



"I only thought of the mercy to myself." — Newman: Apologia. 

One lone rose in the garden's close, 

And never a blossom else is blowing; 
But the morning light and the dews of night 

Could care no more, were a million growing. 

Ah, my heart, in thy close apart, 

Were none on the earth but thee — so lonely, 
Yet the precious flood of the Saviour's blood 

Would fill the world, just to save thee only. 



"Magdalene Mary, stay thee, stay thee; 

Whither dost haste in the dawning fair? " 

"Hinder me not, man, I pray thee; 
Fast must I fly with the news I bear." 

"Magdalene Mary, tell me, tell me, 

Wild is thine eye, and thy cheeks are white.' 

" White for the mystery that befell me; 
Christ have I seen in a dazzling light" 

"Magdalene Mary, hush thy madness; 

Dead is the Lord in the graveyard's gloom." 

" Thus did I moan in my hopeless sadness; 
But Christ can not be in an empty tomb** 

"Magdalene Mary, Magdalene Mary, 

Saw I the watch and the guarding seal." 

"Saw I them, too, and the guards were wary, 
Watching the body our hands might steal.** 

"Magdalene Mary, wild thy story! 

Empty the tomb and His body gone?" 

"Yea, and mine eyes have beheld His glory; 
Yea, and His voice fell mine ear upon" 


"Magdalene Mary, art thou going, 
Once again to reclaim thy dead?" 

"Hardened of heart, wilt thou not be knowing,— 
Risen is Christ, as He often said ? " 

"Magdalene Mary, speed thee, speed thee! 
Tell me the place where my Lord may be." 

"Run as the wild wind, I will lead thee! 
Christ is returning to Galilee." 



Down from the heights of the mountain steep 

The torrents rush with a mighty sweep, 

And cavernous rocks are gaping wide 

As they sullenly roar in the rumbling tide; 

Barren are fields in the biting cold, 

And a lone lamb bleats for the distant fold. 

Who is it comes in the wintry night, 

Far from the glow of His hearthstone bright, 

Braving the wrath of the angry flood, 

Staining the rugged rocks with blood, 

Tuning His ear for a bleating cry 

Of the lamb that has laid it down to die? 

Who but the Shepherd Who loves His own 
(Not of the hireling heart of stone), 
Who rests not happy with all His flocks 
While e'en one wanders amid the rocks. 
What is a lamb to be loved so well? 
'Tis only the Shepherd's heart can tell. 

O Shepherd, Thou Who art called the Good, 

Who watching over Thy sheep hast stood; 

Safe are they ever beneath Thine eye, 

But out of the distance comes the cry 

Of wandering sheep that have missed the fold, 

And starve and freeze in the winter's cold. 


"Other sheep" — yet the sheep are Thine, 

O Lamb of God, with the ninety-nine; 

Far in the wilderness sad they roam, 

But, Shepherd Good, Thou shalt lead them home, 

To follow Thee in at the sheepfold's door, 

One fold, one Shepherd, forevermore. 



Blessed the rose that fragrant blows, 
Red, and full of the flaming June; 

Swinging its scent at the door of His tent, 
A moment of love ere the ending swoon. 

Blessed the light that blazes bright, 
Pressing its seal in the wax's gold; 

Molten tears flow from the heart of the glow,- 
A torrent of love ere the wick grows cold. 

O Christ, let Thy love be the flame that sears 
My hardened heart till it melt in tears; 
And here, at the flap of Thy Tent, be I 
As a censing rose, but to love and die. 



'Tis not the beauty of the home in Heaven 
That I shall prize the most when life is o'er; 

But this sweet thought — no sweeter thought is given- 
My Love is mine, and sin can part no more. 



("Because that, when they knew God, they have not glorified Him as God, 
or given thanks; . . . and (they) worshipped and served the creature rather 
than the Creator." — Romans 21 : 25.] 

They have sung of the flush of the morning light, 

When the night-lamps pale and die; 
Of the foamy wash of the sky-waves white, 

When the moon-boat saileth by. 

They have sung of the ferns in the valleys green, 

Where the brooklets softly croon; 
Of the blossoms squandering charms unseen 

'Neath the rose-red sky of June. 

They have sung of the heroes of olden days, 

With the blood of war besmeared; 
Of the roll of fame, and the wreath of bays 

For the men who fought, nor feared. 

They have sung of the bliss of the human soul, 

When a man and a maiden wed; 
Of the hearts that mourn with an endless dole, 

When the sad farewells are said. 

They have sung of the deeds, of the loves of earth, 

Of the sky and the flow'ring sod; 
But they died ere their poet's soul had birth, 

For they never sang of God. 



[She, thinking that it was the gardener. ... St. John 20 : 15.] 

Ah, better than thou knewest, Magdalene, 
To call Him "gardener" who was thy God; 

True Gardener, who dug thy heart terrene, 
And grew fair lilies from a barren clod! 



Keep step with the Captain, Christ, 

As He leads the van to the fight, 

On to the front of the enemy's line, 

Waving your banners that carry the sign 

Of the blood-red cross in a field of white. 

March, ye men, with a jubilant swing, 

And ever keep step with the Christ, your King. 

Keep step with the Captain, Christ, 

As ye march to the Promised Land; 

Cutting your way in the ranks of the foe, 

Ruthless your blades to the pain and the woe 

Of the conquered hosts of the demon-band. 

On, ye men, let the war-cry ring, 

And ever keep step with the Christ, your King. 

Keep step with the Captain, Christ, 

With your eyes on the ensign true; 

Never a thought of the ills and the ache, 

Counting it glory to bleed for the sake 

Of the God Who bled in the fight for you. 

On, ye braves, till the paeans sing, 

And ever keep step with the Christ, your King. 


Keep step with the Captain, Christ, 

With your hearts on the holy coast. 

Battle ye not for the withering bays; 

Fight for the laurel of infinite days 

In the tents of God and His deathless host. 

Forward, men; to your Captain cling, 

And ever keep step with the Christ, your King. 



[Andrew. . . saithtohim: There is a boyjiere that hath five barley loaves 
and two fishes. — St. John 6 : 8-9.] 

A ragged little fisher boy 
Comes whistling through the fields in joy; 
Oh, great the treasures he doth bring, 
His fishes two upon his string. 

Ah, little fisher, passing by, 
The setting sun doth glorify 
Your baby hands, your lifted head, 
Your little fishes, hanging dead. 

And in you, little lad, I see 

The fisher boy of Galilee, 

Whom Andrew brought unto the Lord 

Among the thousands on the sward. 

Ah, blessed boy, whose fish and bread 
The multitudes of hungry fed, 
Methinks the Lord his pure lips kissed, 
Wee prophet of His Eucharist. 



["And I went down into the potter's house, and behold he was doing a work 
on the wheel. And the vessel was broken which he was making of clay with 
his hands." — Jeremias 18 : 3-4.] 

Beside the whirring wheel, Eternity, 

The Potter stood. 
He mused Him o'er the clay He made to be 

And found it good. 

"Not this alone," He said, "shall be the task 

Of Godhead's power. 
The Love Divine for other life doth ask 

To fill earth's bower. 

"What be it, then, from out the plastic clay? 

Some vessel fair, 
That shall be moulded to remain alway, 

Election rare. 

"Come hither, wheel, and witness this design; 

For it shall last 
As long as thou shalt turn in endless line, 

Once it be cast. 

"Then let Us make this being; let it be 

Of wondrous grace; 
Adorn it well, fit for eternity, 

In lofty place. 


"So to Our likeness let Us welcome it, 

And let Our breath 
Go forth, and bring to life this vessel fit, 

From primal death." 

The will of God was done, and man did wake 

From nothing's night; 
He heard the voice of Him that deigned to make 

His darkness light. 

"A goodly vessel, thou, an image true 

Of Me Divine; 
A vessel to contain the sparkling dew 

Of Love's pure wine. 

"So shalt thou stand, a time, to serve thy Lord; 

And if thou be 
Unbroken to the end, lo, thy reward — 

Me thou shalt see!" 

But man disdained: "I will not join Thy train; 

I, too, will rule." 
But as he spake, the vessel broke in twain; 

Hell laughed, "Thou fool!" 



My soul was like an unlit church, where night 
Had hung her mourning sables o'er each ray, 

Until God's dawning love came with its light, 
And made mine eyes rose-windows to the day. 



"The Flower that once has blown forever dies." — Rubaiyat. 

All vain — thou sayest life is vain, 

Our lot but as the withered flower; 
Our smiles, our sighs, our hopes, our fears, 
Our merry laughs, our bitter tears, 

All ended with the dying hour? 

Then hath this suffering of mine, 

This choice of good, though bringing pain. 
No use in all my spirit's life, 
No value in the spirit's strife? 

Must it be vain, all borne in vain? 

And when I crushed the rising sin, 

Though I bethought it wondrous sweet. 
Toiled I in vain? Had it no worth — 
My rising from the lowly earth, 
To turn to higher paths my feet? 

Ah, soul of mine, be not deceived: 

Beyond the veil, within the light, 
Is One Who waits thee with His kiss 
To shrine thee in eternal bliss; 

So rouse thee, O my soul, and fightt 

5 65 


Laddie, on your trundle bed 

Laddie, do you hear me? 
Do you feel the tears I shed 

While I hold you near me? 
O my laddie, look and see, 

Sure, you know your mother, 
Sure, my child, you'll speak to me,- 

Me who have no other. 

Laddie on your trundle bed, 

Must you soon be dying? 
Spite of all my heart has bled, 

Spite of all my crying. 
Laddie, oh, it's hard to bear 

So to see you languish, 
And I cannot lisp a prayer, 

Only moan in anguish. 

Laddie, since He came for you, 

Wrong is all my crying — 
But His Mother suffered, too, 

When She saw Him dying. 
Laddie, bid Her hear my cries 

By her mother-sorrow; 
Bid Her there in Paradise 

Join us on the morrow. 



Paul Michael Hern. Born April 19, 1905. Died March 14, 1909. 

They called him Paul, when the waters flowed 
From the sea of God in their saving grace; 

And the great Saint Paul led an angel there, 
And breathed a prayer o'er the wee Paul's face. 

And ah, we had planned of the days to be, 
Of the sturdy youth, of the noble man; 

'Twas the best we knew, and we could not see 
That his God had wrought a diviner plan. 

For the ways of God are the ways of the sea — 
They bring to the shore and they take again; 

And the boats are sunk, and our hopes are wrecked, 
And the moan of the sea is our heart in pain. 

But beyond the sea and the rush and roar 
Are the azure skies and the hills of spring, 

And beyond the bound of our aching heart 
Are the hills of God where the angels sing. 

And somewhere, there, where his little boat sailed, 

Only a tide before our own, 
Across the waste of a cheerless sea, 

I know the wee pilot was not alone. 


And I love to think when the tide rolled in, 

To the shores where the feet of the Christ have trod, 

The big Saint Paul hugged the little Saint Paul, 
And lifted him up to the lips of God. 


(In Memoriam H. D.) 

What of thy grief? I hear thy poor heart throbbing, 
Moaning in pain, as March winds o'er her tomb; 

And through the night I listen to thy sobbing, 
For that thy life hath lost its summer bloom. 

What of thy tears? I see them ceaseless flowing, 
Drenching thy heart, as March rains on the snow; 

For in thy sky of life no light is glowing, 
And all thy soul is mantled in its woe. 

What of thy loneliness? When to thy calling 

She answers not as in the baby years; 
When, on her ear thy girlish treble falling, 

She crooned her lullaby to soothe thy fears. 

Yea, but the spring hath lost its wonted glory; 

Come are the tears and pain and loneliness, 
And every day is but a tragic story, 

Bereft of her who only lived to bless. 

Grief in thy world! yet would I hear thee voicing 
No woe above the graveyard's lonely sod; 

But o'er and o'er these words in calm rejoicing, 
"My dearest one is come unto her God." 


(A Mother Laments) 

Over the grass the maple throws 
A gauzy shade like a wisp of cloud; 

Over the sea the sail-boat goes, 

Like a wounded swallow with pinion bowed; 
And the summer noon is dreary. 

Over mine eyes a tender hand 

Has weaved a shadow against the glow; 
Over Life's sea — ah, far the land! — 

As A wingless vessel my heart creeps slow; 
And life at its June is weary. 



To die for Thee: — methinks 'twere easy, Lord, 
To let this blood of mine beneath the sword, 
Or bare my neck unto the twisting cord. 

For then would I, my God, 

(I, lowliest man on this most lowly sod,) 
Throb with the joy of knowing Thou wert near, 

To give Thy hand to me. 
Impossible the very wraith of fear, 

If death were faced with Thee. 

To live for Thee: — Lord, 'tis bitter pain 
To feel the Demon's shade a-near my brain, 
And brave the fight all days against his chain. 

For e'er am I, O God, 

(I, sinliest man of this so sinly sod,) 
Pale from the pain of sin within my blood, 

And power to sin yet more; 
Uncertain I of grace's final flood 

To cleanse my sinful score. 

To die for Thee: — and yet to live for Thee! 
To choose the way, my God, is not for me — 
Death-axe, or e'en the dying quietly. 

Unworthy I, O God, 

(Unworthiest man of this unworthy sod,) 
To be so crowned as with a death like Thine 

Upon the gory cross; 
Martyred of soul — Lord, if this lot be mine, 

Thy choice can bring no loss. 



I paint for thee the portrait of a man, — 
No weakling who has dawdled at his ease 
All days, and fed him on the sweets that please, 

While fellows hungered e'en for tasteless bran. 

This was a soldier in the very van, 

His love for men bound by no lands nor seas: 
No self-delight, but cure of miseries 

The single thought to fill his mortal span. 

And battles left their marks. Behold the hands, 
Pierced through; the feet, with jagged wound; 
The side, full-opened to the spearsman's prod; 
The brow, disfigured by the thorny bands; 
No painless spot in all his body found. 
A man? Yea, this was even very God. 



Hearts of the tree-buds bursting, 
Bursting hearts of the flowers; 

And a robin pipes on a throat a-thirsting, 
Thirsting for drip of the April showers. 

Heart of a man's heart waking, 
j^ Waking from wintry years; 
And the Bird of Heaven coos soft, a-slaking 
Thirst of a God with a man's hot tears. 



["Going they went and wept, . . . But coming they shall come with joy- 
fulness."— Ps. 125.] 

Into the house of the Lord of Hosts, 

With weary step and with aching heart, 
We marched to the music of earthly wails, 

And bade our sorrow — in vain — depart. 

Into the house of the Lord of Hosts, 

As into the home of a tyrant King, 
With sullen countenance passed we on, 

No hope in our hearts to make us sing. 

Into the house of the Lord of Hosts 

We marched while the earth seemed wrapt in gloom; 
We marched with our banners tightly furled, 

As go the vanquished to meet their doom. 

Into the house of the Lord of Hosts, 

With grim despair on our foreheads traced, 

With angry storms in our rebel hearts, 
With step of the criminal, on we paced. 

Out from the house of the Lord of Hosts, 

With banners flying and voices strong, 
We marched with the tread of a conquering band, 

And flooded the earth in triumphant song. 


Out from the house of the Lord of Hosts — 
For God had hearkened our pleading cries- 

We marched to the victory over Sin, 
And changed our earth to a Paradise. 



Say not that life is short, as though the end 
Were come to all when flits the spirit free; 

Thy breath of life with breath of His doth blend, 
Thy days are portion of Eternity. 



He is here, my soul, He is here! 

From the sea, 

From the hill, 

From the lea, 

From the rill, 

Softly still 
Doth He sigh 

Doth He speak, 
Doth He cry. 

He is here, my soul, He is here ! 

In the beams 

Of the light, 

In the streams, 

Purling bright 

From the height, 
Is the gleam 

Of His face; 
Heaven's dream. 

He is here, my soul, He is here! 

In the throng 

Of the bees, 

In the song 

Of the breeze 

Through the trees 
Hear His voice, 

Hear His word, — 
Oh, rejoice. 


He is here, my soul, He is here! 

In the gloom 

Of the night, 

In the tomb 

Of the light, 

Feel His might, 
Feel His hand, 

Feel His breath, 
In command. 

He is here, my soul, He is here! 

Ah, rejoice 

At the roll 

Of His voice 

In thy soul, 

Death to dole! 
He is here, 

Mighty God, 
Death to fear. 



I saw poor shepherds keeping 
The night-watch, in the cold, 

While weary lambs were sleeping 
Within the guarded fold. 

Shepherds, hence be flying 

With angels in the light: 
Another Lamb is crying 

For you this holy night. 

I heard a wee lamb Meeting, 
Forsaken on the plain, 

All night the plea repeating 
For comfort in its pain. 

Ah, lambkin, cease to fret thee, 
Not hopeless is thy plight, 

The Shepherd Good will get thee, 
This holy Christmas night. 



["For God so loved the world as to give His only-begotten Son." — John 3 : 16J 

Thy world may be a witch of monstrous mien, 
Whose hands with blood of innocents are red; 

My world, a maid with countenance serene, 
To whom the King His only Son hath wed. 

Thy world may be the angry, sullen sea, 
Where grim despair eternally hath stalked; 

My world, the peaceful Lake of Galilee, 

Upon whose waves the Son of God hath walked. 

Thy world may be a blighted harvest-field, 
A vale of rock, a plain of withered sod; 

My world, the beauty of a garden sealed, 

Whose flowers are fragrant with the breath of God. 



Maiden, thou art yet so young, 

All of life before thee; 
Wherefore walk the graves among, 

With the sackcloth o'er thee? 

Soon will youth be old and worn, 
Soon will life forsake me: 

With my heart by earth-love torn, 
Would my Bridegroom take me ? 

Maiden, beautiful thou art, 
Eyes and lips and tresses: 

Wherefore break thy lonely heart, 
Fleeing love's caresses? 

Rarest beauty mine may be; 

Though my wimple cover, 
God that made me fair will see: 

Need I dearer lover ? 



A flashing, crystal sea is God's deep heart, 
And in the bark of Life I o'er it ride; 

Ah, pirate Death, tear thou the craft apart, 
And let me sink in that caressing tide. 



The sea: and the waves are lashing wild, 
Storm-tossed upon the rocky shore; 

But deep in its heart the sea is sleeping mild, 
And softest music sounds the distant roar. 

And life: it seemed but a sea of strife, 
When youth went out upon the tide; 

But deep as I sink within the sea of life, 
I find the calm where God and peace abide. 



Dark is the fathomless deep; 
But shallow and crystal clear 
It shines, when the sun-rays peer 

Into its heart where waters calmly sleep. 

Out of the depths I call; 
But shallow my sea of woes, 
When the heart within me knows 

How far the rays from God's hot love can fall. 



Save, O God, the soul of me, 
Scourge me not eternally, — 
Bonds of fire I cannot dree, 
Lord, at least my Saviour be! 

Yet, God, not me alone; 
Save the friends I call my own, — 
Tender they of flesh and bone: 
God, be not your heart of stone! 

Save me, God, and save them, too. 
Ask I more? Yea, God, I do — 
Plead for all the world to you: 
Leave not one of us to rue! 



Ye say we are but toys for Deity 

To scatter, heedless, on this play-room floor: 
Aye, toys — like those which Christ's dear infancy 

Hugged to his Heart, asleep when play was o'er. 



The little violets blue, 
That in the woodland grew 
A moment brief, and died; 
Were they not glorified 
By alchemy divine 
Into a baby's eyen? 

And we who walked one day 
Along the joyful way 
Till sorrow crushed us twain; 
Shall we not meet again, 
Transfigured to the skies, 
Twin souls in Paradise? 



The light shone bright on the window pane, 
As I sat and looked at the pelting rain, 

My thoughts far, far away. 
Out in the shadows I saw my face, 
Stern with a sorrow's lingering trace 

Of a distant happy day. 

How came the skull and the cross-bones there, 
Under the mass of my tangled hair 

Out in the blinding rain? 
It seemed like the passing of life to death, 
I inside with my living breath, 

And the skull on the window pane. 

A fancy only, a fevered dream, 
Evoked by the rain's incessant stream, 

A fancied, fevered sight; 
But ah, 'tis a dream one day to be 
As true as the length of eternity — 

The skull and the dreary night. 


A beggar pleaded for an alms, 

I passed unheeding by; 
Why should he dare to trouble me, 

What meant to me his cry? 

But all the day that withered face 

I saw where'er I went, 
And felt the clutching at my coat 

Of hands by hunger spent. 

And o'er those sunken, pleading eyes, 

A sign I seemed to see 
Of bleeding wounds that sadly said, 

"Christ was refused by thee." 



Could I the gentle voice of Jesus hear, 
Telling Beatitudes in Galilee, 
Or praying in the house of Bethany, 

How haply would I lend my listening ear. 

Or could I stand on Calvary's summit drear, 
To hear Him calling from the accursed tree, 
Or hear his "Peace," from death and tomb set free, 

Ah, blessed earth, with Heaven itself so near. 

So mused I, thirsting for that long ago, 
When Jesus walked upon the ways of men; 
Till some small voice within me wakened then, 
And whispered so: "If truly thou wouldst know, 
God's voice still speaks as in those days apart, 
Incline thine ear, and listen to thine heart." 



When love of earth e'en works a spell, 
So like an endless dream of bliss; 

Of love to be what tongue can tell, 

When Christ shall touch us with His kiss? 



Not on the heights of the scarred hills, 
'Mid calm of holy, earth-free air, 

Where the poet's soul with a rapture thrills: 
My love, my love, I met not there. 

Not in the fields where the maiden flowers 

Enslave the poet in their net, 
Till his heart forgets the flight of the hours: 

My love, my love, not there I met. 

But deep in a city's street defiled, 
Afar from hills and the flowering sod, 

In the pure, faith-shining eyes of a child, 
'Twas there I met my Love, my God. 


Mute the night beneath the sky, 
And the moon is clouded; 

In its loneliness am I 

With my heart grey-shrouded. 

Loneliness — oh, heart of me, 
Wherefore must we bear it? 

What is life but misery, 
With no heart to share it? 

Loneliness — ah, heart, be gay; 

Wherefore lose thy gladness? 
If thy God had gone away, 

Thou hadst need of sadness. 



Blue as the sky, 

Blue as the sea, 
Light as the down, 

Blown o'er the lea: 

Little, but work of Eternity. 

Never a sound, 

Stiller than death, 
Never a word, 

Never a breath: 

Lifeless? ah, living, the mother-bird saith. 

Softly, thou breeze, 

Mother it well; 
Gently, thou branch, 

What if it fell? 

Nought on the ground but a broken shell. 

Mother-bird, stay, 

Mother-love strong, 
Fondle thy child, 

Embryo song: 

Hurry, for earth has been waiting long. 



Violets blue 

Mean faithful, true; 

That's the reason why I send 

Violets to you, dear friend. 

Let them breathe this thought alone — 

God is faithful to his own. 



"Death is Venus to her; her only pleasure is in death." — Lactantius in "The 

Hail and farewell! Godspeed, ye blessed dead! 

No bitter tears be ours, nor hopeless moan. 

From out our home ye went unto your own, 
As go the virgins on the day they wed. 

For what is life? Behold the phoenix bird, 

Sun-circling on the wing a thousand times, 

Her food the choicest gums of Arab climes, 
Brief life: and then the Fowler's call is heard. 

And what is death? the phoenix, building high 
With cassia, spikenard, cinnamon and myrrh, 
Droops low on pinions that have ceased their whir, 

And gives unto the Sun her parting sigh. 

'Tis death, and yet 'tis life: from ashes gray 
A phoenix new climbs through the starry fire, 
Bearing old cerements on censed pyre 

To lay them at the gates of endless day. 

Ye souls, God-fed, whose flight on earth is done, 
Winged songsters in the Eden groves ye roam: 
Keep we your ashes till ye take them home, 

That day, unto the city of the Sun. 



Ladye, I would be thy Knight, 

And a- warring go; 
And thy favor, blue and white, 

As my colors show. 
All the night my vigil keeping 

At thy holy shrine, 
Till I see thine eyes unsleeping 

Looking into mine. 

Ladye, I would be thy Knight, 

Brandishing my blade; 
Strong my arm to hold the fight 

For thee, Royal Maid. 
Paynim foemen may assail thee; 

(Ladye, have no fear!) 
For my courage will not fail me 

While I feel thee near. 

Ladye, I would be thy Knight, 

Courting pains and death; 
Blazoning thy honor bright 

Till my latest breath. 
Ah, sweet Ladye, though they leave me 

Dead upon the field, 
Happy Knight, if thou receive me 

Home, upon my shield! 

7 97 


I know the sea where the breezes are twining 
Wimples of white for the brows of the billows : 

White is the foam where the sunlight is shining, 
But whiter the roses at rest on their pillows. 

I know the tree where the young rose is dreaming, 
Lilted to sleep by the croon of the fountains : 

White is the rose where the sunlight is streaming, 
But whiter the snows on the crest of the mountains. 

I know the peaks where the snowflakes are dancing, 
Tripping it light as the feet of a fairy: 

White is the snow where the sunlight is glancing, 
But whitest of all is thy brow, Virgin Mary! 



I know where the sweetest of birds are singing, 

Lightly perched on the olive limb; 
Breast to breast with the angels winging, 

Over the garden of Joachim. 
Oh, 'tis a day for the birds to be wooing 

All the world with a song of love, 
For, hark, from her nest the wee voice cooing 

Unto Her mate, God's Holy Dove. 

I know where the fairest of flowers are growing, 

Clustered close on the sunlight's pyre, 
Over Saint Anna's threshold throwing 

Frankincense of their hearts' desire. 
Oh, 'tis a day for the lilies to favour . 

Earth and sky with their goodly smell: 
For, lo, o'er the world is borne the savour 

Of God's pure lily of Israel. 



I as a cinder black, 
I as a quenched fire; 

Thou as a glowing coal, 
Fanned by a God's desire. 

I as a wilted leaf, 
I as a twig all dried; 

Thou as a fruitful sheaf, 
Thou as a forest wide. 

I as a cloud of gray, 

I as a starless night; 
Thou as the sky of May, 

Thou as the noonday bright. 

I as a ranksome weed, 
I as a poison vine; 

Thou as the dewy mead, 
Thou as the eglantine. 

I am the soul all stained, 
Fit to be Satan's mate; 

Thou art the soul unchained, 
Thou art immaculate. 



O ye stars of radiant light 
In the calm September night, 
Never did ye shine so bright, 

Since the glad creation morn. 
Hush thee, earth, the stars are telling 
Why the firmament is swelling 
With a glory so excelling: 

Lo, God's fairest Star is born! 

O ye golden-hearted flowers, 
In Saint Anna's holy bowers, 
Never sun, nor gentle showers 

Made you with this fragrance grow. 
Hush thee, sky, the flowers are saying, 
Why all earth with joy is swaying 
In its ecstacy of praying : 

Lo, God's Rose of Jericho ! 

O ye Angels, whence your hymn 

In the house of Joachim, 

Till Saint Anna's eyes grow dim 

At the wonders of your lay? 
Hush thee, man, the angels singing 
From the courts of Heaven come winging, 
God's own saving message bringing: 

Lo, our Hope is born today! 



I know the way My Lady went 

From humble Nazareth, 
When to the hills her steps she bent, 

To greet Elizabeth. 
I know the way My Lady went, 
I know it by the mystic scent 
Of lilies tall and lilies sweet, 
That bended them, with joy replete, 
To lay their glories at Her feet. 
Ah, lilies, ye were not so fair, 
Until My Lady journeyed there. 

I know the place My Lady 'bode 

In Hebron's lovely vale, 
When to Elizabeth she showed 

Her young heart's wondrous tale. 
I know the place My Lady 'bode, 
I know it by the light that glowed 
From lilies tall and lilies fair, 
Transfigured as they listened there 
To her Magnificat's meek prayer. 
Ah, lilies, not so sweet ye grew 
Till Israel's Lily breathed on you. 



Dear little God on a wisp of hay, 
Lending an ear to an angel's lay, 

Lullaby, sleep, 

While the stars peep, 
Sorrow will follow too soon with the day. 

Dreamest thou now of the cursed tree? 
Hearest the moan of our misery? 

Lullaby, rest, 

Sleep now is blest, 
Waking, the face of Thy Mother Thou'lt see. 



Hush, my Babe, and slumber; 
Angels without number 
Watch Thee in the winter night, 
Keeping all the stars alight: 
Hush, for all the heavens are nigh, 
So rest, my Babe, and do not cry. 

Hush, my Babe, be sleeping; 
Rest while I go weeping, 
Looking to the distant hill 
Where wrath of sin is never still : 
Hush, tho' I must now lament, 
Thy tears of blood be yet unspent. 



Bright the starry flowers are growing 

In the fields Elysian, 
From the skies their radiance throwing 

O'er the Christmas Vision. 
Little Jesus is not minding 

Wealth of starshine pouring; 
Brighter starlight He is finding — 

Mary's eyes adoring. 

Angel hosts from Heaven come winging, 

Folding him from danger. 
Hush, what music they are singing 

By the lowly manger. 
Little Jesus is not heeding 

What their lips are saying; 
Sweeter sounds to him are pleading 

In His mother's praying. 



[And after the days of her purification . . . they carried Him to Jerusalem 
to present Him to the Lord, . . . and to offer sacrifice, ... a pair of turtle- 
doves or two young pigeons. — St. Luke 2: 22-24.] 

'Tis not the robin I hear today, — 

The robin with breast of red; 
Ah, long the day since he flew away 

From the fields now lying dead! 
'Tis not the thrush nor the nightingale, 

Not the lark that soars above; 
But under the eaves in the wintry gale 

I list to the cooing dove. 

O dove at rest on the rooftree high, 

O dove on the earth below, 
'Tis little ye know what ye tell to me 

Of doves of the long ago ! 
For I close my ears to the city's roar, 

And dream I am far away, 
To stand at the mighty Temple's door 

On the Presentation Day. 

And I see the Mother with tender Child — 

A mother, yet maiden, too, — 
Who stands in the ranks of the sin-defiled, 

As Jehovah bade her do. 
A penny dove for a holocaust, 

And a penny dove for sin, — 
Ah, cooing doves from the cages tossed, 

What blessedness ye win! 


For I see the blood of each gentle bird 

Poured out the stones upon, 
While the wondrous prophecies are heard 

From Anna and Simeon. 
Ah, Mother of God, in the Temple dim, 

Who seest each bleeding dove, 
I know thou art seeing the blood of Him, 

Thine own little Bird of love! 

dove at rest on the rooftree high, 
O dove in the city street, 

1 hark to the sound of your cooing cry, 
And I find it wondrous sweet. 

Ah, spring may come with the robin's trill 

And the thrush's roundelay, 
But never a bird my soul to thrill 

As the doves of Candlemas Day. 



["My beloved to me, and I to Him, who feedeth among the lillies." Canti- 
cles 2 : 16.] 

Come, little Jesus, to the woodland come a-Maying, 
Come where the roses and the lilies are a-flower; 

Thou and I alone, Love, through field and vineyard straying, 
Seeking in the valley cool a blossom-laden bower. 

Come, little Jesus, and I'll crown Thy raven tresses, 
Crown Thee with a lily crown all dewy in the morn; 

O little Love, my Dove, whom all my soul caresses, 
Let it be a lily crown — full soon will come the thorn. 

Come, little Jesus, and a song will I be singing, 
Singing my Magnificat for that Thou art my Child; 

O little heart o' mine, no Gabriel a-winging 

Sang for Thee so sweet a song as sings Thy mother mild. 

Come, little Jesus, and I'll listen as Thou spellest 
Every name of flower and tree a- waving in the breeze; 

See how my eager soul will hearken as Thou tellest 
What the merry little birds are singing in the trees. 

Come, little Jesus, to the woodland come a-Maying; 

All the flowers are waiting to outpour their incense rare. 
Come, and let them greet Thee, Love, while Thou and I are 

Praying that the souls of men become as lilies fair. 



What is the song of the dreamy June? 

'Tis a gentle croon, 
From the heart of the wild rose singing, 

And swinging. 
Heart of the red rose opening wide; 
Heart of the white rose, like a bride. 
Answering soft as a gentle maid 
To the wild bee's wooing serenade. 

What is the song of the mystic June? 

'Tis a holy tune, 
From the heart of the Queen Rose, swaying, 

And praying. 
Heart of a red rose — Rose of pain; 
Heart of a white rose, free from stain; 
Heart of the fadeless Sharon Rose, 
Wooing my soul to Her garden-close. 



"Sweets to the sweet," methinks He gaily cried, 
The little Christ, when bringing blossoms rare, 
He wreathed a precious crown amid Thy hair, 

Then stood away to gaze in sonly pride. 

Nor didst Thou seek that merry laugh to chide, 
Nor like not thus to be decked out so fair, 
And warmer were your kisses — happy pair — 

When back He ran within Thine arms to hide. 

But when the little eyes were closed in sleep, 
I see Thee gently kiss the flowers now dead, 

And, looking at each sharp thorn, sadly weep, 

To think that these must one day pierce His head. 

What marvel that Thine eyes close not in rest, 

As fast to Thee the little head is pressed. 



God's Mother 'dowed me with a rose, 

A budding rose, a white rose: 
So fair it was, no wreath of snow 
On mountain peak e'er glistened so. 
"O Ladye, why this bud of white, 
So like the snows of Christmas night?" 
God's Mother said: "To bring to thee 
Sweet thoughts of Jesu's infancy." 

God's Mother 'dowed me with a rose, 
A thorny rose, a red rose : 

So red it was, as Holy Rood 

By Jesu's saving Blood bedewed. 
"O Ladye, why this rose of red 
Which Thine own tears have nourished?'* 
God's Mother said: "To have thee know 
Why Jesu bore his weight of woe." 

God's Mother 'dowed me with a rose, 

A jewelled rose, a gold rose: 
So golden — like the Holy Grail — 
It made the sun of noontide pale. 
"O Ladye, why this rose of gold, 
That mine unworthy hands do hold?" 
God's Mother said: " To lift thine eyes 
To Jesu's love in Paradise." 



I saw God's Mother at the morn 

In blessed Nazareth, 
Among the blossoms newly born 

That opened to her breath. 
With gentle hand from off the tree 

She pulled five roses white; 
I heard her tell the mystery 

Each rose brought to her sight. 

"Gabriel, Elizabeth, and humble Bethlehem; 
Simeon; and Thou, my Son, found in Jerusalem.' 

I saw God's mother at the noon, 

When morning's toil was done. 
The blossoms bent them 'neath her shoon, 

To kiss her every one. 
From off the tree five roses fair 

She pulled, and all were red; 
Then, deep in meditation there, 

These mysteries she said: 

"Bloody sweat, and bloody scourge, and blood of piercing 

Heavy cross; and Calvary, where died my Only-Born." 


I saw God's Mother at the night, 

Alone among the flowers; 
The coming of the morrow's light 

Would end life's weary hours. 
She pulled five roses wet with dew, — 

Five roses, yellow-gold. 
"Magnificat!" she sang anew, 

And this dear story told: 

"Risen Son, ascended Son, and Thou descending Dove; 
Rose of my death; and thou last rose of Jesus' crowning love." 



No roses deck my garden 

This chill October night, 
But the white moon stands a warden, 

And casts her searching light 
Upon the barren close, 

Till leaves all sere and dead 
Glow as a golden rose, 

Like the rose-stars burnished. 

No roses decked our garden, 

Out garden filled with rue, 
Till Our Lady, by God's pardon, 

Came walking down the blue, 
And touched our spirits cold, 

Till hopes that languished there 
Shone as a rose of gold 

To light God's Eden fair. 



Peter from Rome and mighty Paul, 
John and the holy Apostles all, 
Came at the Master's loving call, 
To see our Lady die. 

This is the story handed down: 
When came they unto the Holy Town, 
Our Lady lay in her winding-gown, 
To watch her hour draw nigh. 

Out from the sky an angel throng 
Fluttered to earth with joyful song, 
And bare her soul, awaiting long, 
Unto the Saviour's hands. 

Peter from Rome and mighty Paul, 
John and the holy Apostles all, 
Bare her out by the city wall, 

While sang the angel band. 

Out in the Lord's Gethsemane, 
Red with the blood of his agony, 
Deep in the shade of an olive tree, 
They made Our Lady's tomb. 


There, when the grave was closed and sealed, 
Peter and all devoutly kneeled, 
While three days long sweet music pealed 
Above Our Lady's room. 

Peter from Rome and mighty Paul, 
John and the holy Apostles all, 
When angel voices had ceased to call, 
Unclosed Our Lady's door. 

Wonderful thing! Our Lady fair 
Was left not for corruption there; 
The Maid was gone, and perfume rare 
Was all the grave-clothes bore. 

Ah, they, I ween, had scant surprise 
To know that God in Paradise 
Could wait not for His Love to rise 
Until the Day of Dread! 

So, Peter from Rome and mighty Paul, 
John, and ye holy Apostles all, 
Bid her, who was saved from our parents' fall 
Be at our dying bed. 



Queen of angels: hark the singing 

Of celestial choirs ! 
'Tis for Thee the bells are ringing, 
And the golden censers swinging 

With their perfumed fires. 

Queen of prophets : seers hoary 

Come in mighty throng. 
Never sang they sweeter story 
Than the hymning of Thy glory, 

In their royal song. 

Queen of martyrs: what ovation 
• From the purpled train! 
Saints of every tribe and station, 
On this day of coronation, 
Greet Thee — Queen of pain. 

Queen of virgins: hark their greeting, 

On the heavenly stair! 
O'er and o'er their hymn repeating 
In the gladness of their meeting 

With God's maiden fair. 

Queen of all who now are lying 

On His breast serene; 
'Mid their songs of glorifying, 
Hear the burthen of our crying: 

Mary be our Queen! 



They call Thee Queen of God's great Paradise; 

Aye, Queen: but let me fancy Thee beside, 
Cradling Thine arms, and crooning lullabies, 

Nurse-mother of our innocents that died. 



What time the little Jesus said 

His first words on the earth, 
Nine choirs of angels bowed the head 
To hear what Jesus whispered 

To her that gave Him birth. 
O angels, near to Mary mild, 
What spake the little lisping Child? 
"But this: God's Son would say no other, 
But whisper lovingly, 'My Mother!"' 

What time the dying Saviour dear 

Spake from the tree accurst, 
Nine choirs of angels gathered near, 
The Master's holy words to hear, 

Before he moaned, "I thirst!" 

angel hosts on Calvary, 

What words did Jesus speak for me? 
"But this: 'twas unto John, thy brother, 
He spake of Her; 'Behold thy Mother !'" 

What time within this vale I stay, 

O Jesus, Master blest, 
May angel choirs around me pray, 
And teach my childish lips to say 

The word Thou lovest best. 
And when upon my bed of death 

1 call Her with my latest breath, 
O Jesus, unto me be given 

To call Thy mother mine, in Heaven. 

— Feast of the Maternity. 


"Shepherdess of wimple white, 
Shepherdess of kirtle blue, 
Lambs are straying in the night, 
Bleating mournfully for you." 

'Hush, I plod across the wold, 
Leaning on my shepherd-rod; 

Soon each lambkin will I hold, 
As I hold the Lamb of God.'* 

' Shepherdess of winged feet, 
Shepherdess of yearning soul, 

Hark the vagrant lambs that bleat 
Down in Purgatory's dole." 

'Hush, I hap across the stars. 

With God's pardon in my hand; 
Come, ye souls, from prison bars 
Unto Jesu's Holy Land." 



God give thee when thy weary day is done, 
Not wreath of bay as guerdon of thy quest, 

But in the stillness of Life's setting sun 
Unto thy toiling soul eternal rest. 


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